He ignored the carts and carriages clogging the busy street, so intent was he on watching for street sweeps along the way. He dropped a coin into the overturned hat of a man still dressed in ragged uniform issue, one of his sleeves empty and tied off at the wrist. Arnaud shook his head at the thought of the never-ending coil of wars followed by lack of work, and respect, for returning soldiers and sailors.
The Dog and Partridge loomed ahead. The turn down Duke Street toward Seaton’s boarding house on the corner of Jermyn was a short distance from the popular pub. He raced on past, praying young Charles Lambert would be at home. Arnaud couldn’t help suspecting he knew more than he’d revealed the first time they’d met.
He took a deep breath before knocking on the front door. In the space of that breath he heard a familiar sound. Someone was beating the dust out of carpets. The noise seemed to come from outside the boarding house. He descended the steps and peered down the narrow, crooked walk between the buildings. He followed the sound of the solid, rhythmic whacks around to the rear of the building in the tiny space between the rear of the Lambert house and a small, public mews.
And there, mid-sneeze, was his quarry. The sight of the tall young man brought back the sights and sounds of the bloody battle in the Bay of Algiers. He looked so much like his father, Captain Lambert, Arnaud could not breathe for a second. Memories of the smell of gunpowder and blood on the decks paralyzed him with horror. He could not blot out the vision of Charles’s father lying on the deck, nearly cut in half by a cannonball shot to his side. The innocent face with his father’s steady blue gaze turned to stare directly at Arnaud, and in that moment he saw shame there.
Arnaud walked to his side and put his hand on his shoulder. “You have something to tell me.” It was not a question.
Charles hung his head and motioned for Arnaud to follow him into the house.
Mrs. Lambert must have observed the scene in the back garden, and had started preparation of a tea cart.
As soon as they settled at the small, battered table, Charles revealed what he knew in a rush. Yes, he’d been the bearer of messages between Seaton and his contact at the Dog. Charles’s description of the man who’d delivered the messages matched the one given by Seaton under questioning.
The most frightening discovery was in the final note the young man had picked up. When he’d heard Howick’s men at the pub searching for information on Sophie and realized what danger she was in, he’d opened the last note for Seaton since his mother’s lodger hadn’t returned for weeks. “I sent a message to the address you gave me when you were here before.” He showed Arnaud a note detailing how Sophie had to be delivered to the duke’s men for transport on a ship waiting at the West India docks.
Damn.Arnaud had given the young man his mother’s address on Hanover Square, and she’d been gone for days between the house party and the time it had taken for the bullet graze on his forehead to heal.
He read the part of the note about the duke’s men again. Arnaud’s heart froze, as cold as a night watch in the Channel. The only duke the note could possibly refer to would be Sophie’s uncle. What in the name of God washeabout? Why destroy an innocent young woman over a paltry inheritance when he was the Duke of Wolford, one of the wealthiest men in England?
Later, after finishing his confession of being Seaton’s go-between to the Dog and Partridge, Charles gave a huge sigh. “I saw sketches Howick’s men circulated of that poor young woman. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. She is so beautiful, and you love her.”
His last statement was not a question either.
Arnaud nodded and did not contradict him. “I thank you for all your help.”
“Will you find her in time?”
“I have no choice. Her life and mine depend on it. I cannot fail.”
Sophie slowly opened her eyes. Lead weights seemed to work against the effort. When she rubbed at her eyes to force them open, a sticky, sandy substance kept them nearly sealed shut. She felt for the jug of water the last sailor had left on the floor near her bunk.
Splashing water on her face helped to pry her eyes open. When she swung her legs around to sit upright, the ugly, tiny cabin spun. She lay back down abruptly. She must still be alive at least. This certainly was not heaven, and even hell could not be this bad.
She’d been fearful and full of dread the previous day. Now she was angry. Her mind was back to working on the puzzle, turning and clicking parts into place until at last she had a plan. The ship’s crewmen were punctual to a fault. If one of the little toads failed to re-appear after dumping nasty biscuits and stale-tasting water in her cabin, the rest of the shipboard automatons would probably fly into a panic and rush to her room to see what was wrong. By her calculation, she might have ten or fifteen minutes, give or take an extra five before one of the other toads would check on the missing toad.
The question was, where would she go after she escaped? The Howicks would welcome her back, of course, but they werenother family. She had no family, considering how her uncle was trying to destroy her and have her sent God knows where.
And then there was her late, beloved grandmother. Sophie understood why she would have stipulated a safe marriage before releasing her inheritance, considering Paolo Brancelli’s spendthrift ways. But Sophie had learned the most important lesson of her life from her father.
Every penny she might earn would be allotted only to bare necessities or savings. Whenever her father had received a large royalty check from his publisher, he would throw a huge party for all his friends. Then Sophie would be obliged to spend the rest of the month in barter and ingenuity to keep food on the table and coal in the fireplace.
She fingered the key on the chain around her neck. The sailor who had stolen her watch had turned up his nose at the key.
Thank the gods.
She tensed and jerked upright at a sudden scraping at the entryway when the latest toad barged into the cabin. The dark shadows in her bleak abode worked in her favor when she grasped the water jug and took aim. His head thunked like a ripe melon, and he sank like a sack of potatoes. Was he dead? She listened and touched his chest. Still breathing. Time to go.Jupiter.
Nearly every one of Arnaud’s instincts screamed he should corner the Duke of Wolford in his lair and demand the bastard tell him what he’d done with Sophie. The few remaining instincts whispered he should take the fastest mount in Howick’s mews to the docks and bully every dockside denizen and ship’s captain until someone revealed where Sophie was being held.
The only reason Captain Arnaud Bellingham had survived so many sea battles and the worst the ocean could throw at him was his utter calm under fire. He had the ability to analyze all of his options before committing to a single path. That was the way to stay alive. And that was what he had to force himself to do now to save Sophie. He needed his men.
Arnaud headed back up to Piccadilly and soon found Bourne and Neville, as well as Cullen and Artemis. After giving up on convincing his hard-headed patient to rest a few days longer, his surgeon had borrowed another mount from Sir Thomas and ridden directly to Howick House from Clifford Park. Arnaud’s mother, Honore, and Admiral Thornbrough had followed close behind in her carriage.
Arnaud pulled all of his men to the nearest pub to put their heads together while they decided on a course of action.
Once Arnaud and his men took over a quiet corner table in the back room of the Crooked Candle, everyone offered different ideas on the best way to find Sophie. They finally decided Bourne and Neville would attempt to convince Sophie’s uncle, Wolford, to reveal what he knew of her whereabouts. They agreed they would leave a message at the Candle if they discovered any sign of her. If all else failed, the two men would scour the neighborhood for servants’ gossip.
